


With a Lion's Heart

by Winchester_Werewolf



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Forgive Me, Multi, POV Original Female Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-10
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-23 01:00:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/920129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winchester_Werewolf/pseuds/Winchester_Werewolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You were born by the sword, and you will die by the sword." </p><p>Fleeing from Westeros in fear of their lives as the Seven Kingdoms continue their fight for the Iron Throne, two shield-maidens must find their place in a new world. </p><p>A world where dwarves and elves are not akin to Grumpkins and Snarks and creatures lurk in the dark deadlier than before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flight and Flocking

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Game of Thrones/The Hobbit cross-over, and it is OC-centric but much of the story will be deviated to the other characters, Brienne being one of them.

They had been riding for several days, their horse had grown weary and Myriene wondered when the poor beast would die from exhaustion.

Her mother would not speak, would do nothing but ride and sleep and make sure Myriene had eaten enough of the dried gruel to keep her going. Whatever questions Myriene had once had on her lips had disappeared several weeks before.

She knew they had truly left Westoros when the trees in the forests and the animals changed into ones she had never seen before. Great big trees with needles for leaves that permeated the air with their scent and made Myriene feel vaguely ill.

It wasn’t long before Myriene could see great mountains through the treetops, although they were not snow-capped like the ones she had seen in tapestries and paintings. They were great, stone giants that loomed so high clouds obscured the very peaks.

At the base of the mountain, for the first time in weeks, they sheltered in a shallow cave and rested their poor horse. It frothed at the mouth and drank for several moments at the tiny ponds that littered around the rocks, refusing to be touched further than being relieved of its saddle. Myriene was finally allowed out of the uncomfortable plate armour and mail that her mother had strapped to her before their departure.

The leather straps and rings had made grooves in her skin; especially where the straps had to be pulled in tightly to hold it on to her chest for the chest plate was a little too big. Her mother, however, was worse. Great bruises had formed on her shoulders and wrists where the straps had jostled during riding, chafing the skin raw. She did not flinch when Myriene washed them, but smiled stiffly when she kissed them. They ate more of the gruel, not trusting the little black berries that grew around the mountain in brambles and Myriene slept better without her armour on.

The horse was a lot more complacent in the morning, and Myriene found herself behind her mother again, strapped into her armour and hoping the beast beneath her did not throw them off as they headed up a mountain road. Whoever had laid the road had abandoned it many years before, rough yellowed grass grew between the cobblestones and roots from the strange needle-trees had torn several parts of it up. Their horse did not appreciate the rough footing and made it known by jerking the reigns and making a ruckus.

The mountain pass was darker than travelling on lower ground, and they stopped again to rest in a grove in the mountain, bringing their horse in with them to keep warm. Myriene had never been so cold.

The days travelling through the mountain were very bitter, and they rode in their armour for several days. The metal on Myriene’s skin seemed to make her colder, and her toes and fingers stayed numb for several days. Her mother’s were not much better.

Five days passed before the mountain passed started to steep to lower ground, and Myriene looked towards the horizon, but saw nothing but more forest.

When they finally reached lower ground, they walked, pulling the over-worked horse behind them. By the end of the first day Myriene’s lungs burned and her legs ached.

“Get used to it,” her mother had told her when she complained, throwing sticks into the small smoking fire and giving Myriene a look. 

It was around the six-week mark when they first caught sight of a village settlement, nestled next to a lake and another group of trees. 

Her mother told her to wait in the safety of the trees around the village, and took their now quite ornery horse to either trade or sell. Her mother wrapped the rugged travelling cloak around her shoulders, obscuring her armour and her harshness. She returned with a new stead, this time a chestnut mare with gentle eyes that spoke of farm labour and it wore their previous horse’s saddle.

“The people of this land are odd,” She told Myriene that night, “They barter with tiny bronze coins instead of Gold Dragons, and they did not like the idea of a woman travelling alone. Be wary of their concern, little cub.”

The land soon started to change again, and they passed a few more little villages, filled with peasants in brown clothes and dirty faces. Little children ran about like wild animals, squealing and playing in the mud. Men watched them warily from their workshops and crops whilst the women stood more often outside their little wooden shacks, grey-faced and solemn. The times when Myriene and her mother rode through the towns without cloaks to hide their armour, women stared at them in wonder and men gave them worrying and slightly soured looks.

As the days wore on, and Myriene got more and more grumpy and travel-worn they finally reached a village with an Inn. The owner, a tough old man with a wiry beard spluttered at the golden coin her mother paid him, and looked aghast when she asked him to place them in a single, simple room to avoid attention.

When he asked for her name she told him to simply call her Catelyn, and to call Myriene Sansa. Myriene did not like going by a fake name, although the amount of times her mother had gone by one in the past few years had sobered her up some.

She bathed in a wooden tub in an outhouse whilst her mother scrubbed their clothes, and ate a quiet meal in their room of roast meat, black grainy bread and roasted potatoes. Myriene was even allowed a small tankard of mead. They slept that night in a single bed; the mattress of straw and the blanket quite scratchy but it was the most peaceful night’s sleep she had had in quite a while.

It was while they were breaking their fast the next morning that Myriene asked what they were going to do now they were out of Westeros.

“Although it is not honourable, we are to become sell-swords if anyone is to hire us. I doubt a lord would wish to have a middle-aged woman in their guard with a youth daughter at her side.” She told her seriously, looking into Myriene’s eyes as if she was searching for confirmation in their depths.

“You know I am not good with a sword, what am I to do?” Myriene asked quietly, nibbling at her food.

“You doubt your skills, I did not raise you this way.” She said harshly. “You were born by the sword, and you will die by the sword. Now finish your food, we shall leave shortly.”

They rode for several more days, and stayed in another village, where the locals confused her mother for a man and ogled at her sword. Unlike the other places they rested in, they stayed for several days.

Myriene had taken to sitting in the tavern during the day and talking to some of the farmer’s who came in for lunch and ale. Although their accent was thick on the common tongue, Myriene enjoyed listening to their tales and let them explain things about the land she now found herself.

The land was called Arda, and there was another land across a great sea called Aman where one of the farmer’s said Gods walked the earth with spirits and elves alike. Myriene had called the man a liar when he talked about elves, for if one for to believe in elves than surely one must also believe in grumpkins and snarks. But the farmer quite readily assured Myriene that elves _were_ real, and _why, they lived not a little east of here_! You could even ask the local guardsmen at the gate of the little village for they had seen Elven rangers many a time out on the distant plains! Myriene had scoffed at that, but even the inn-keep and reassured her that it was true, elves did live in Arda and that there were even dwarves.

_Dwarves!_

Myriene had never heard of such nonsense, and it had been quite a surprise when her mother had come into the tavern and reminded her that Arda was not Westeros, and many races shared the land. Including orcs and goblins, things from tales old mothers told their children to keep them in bed at night. Myriene did not rest easy that night; even the elves were as bad as the orcs in her terror dreams.

For Myriene it was a sad morning when she left the little village, strapped into her armour again and riding behind her mother on another strange horse that seemed to not have grown accustomed to its long legs.

Her mother was unusually talkative during the ride, even slowing down a little to enjoy the rather bleak scenery with its few gatherings of needle-trees (which she had learnt were called pine trees). She told Myriene about life in her father’s castle, Evenfall Hall, on the island of Tarth in the Narrow Sea. How she used to train on the soft, warm sands with a sword in her hand and bathe her sweat and blood away in the sapphire blue waters of the sea.

When Myriene asked why she didn’t drink it, her mother had laughed so hard it scared birds out of the trees and explained that the waters of any sea were salty. The Sapphire Isle was no exception, the salt sometimes causing many ships great distress as the lumber of its hulls were eaten by it. It made Myriene feel very foolish, but she knew her mother’s laughter held no ill will.

The next few villages they stayed in varied in hospitality, and they steadily grew larger. In hostile villages they stayed a night, or left right away, the men unhappy to see a woman not riding side-saddle and wearing armour. In others they might stay for a day or two, Myriene’s mother even looking for work several times and occasionally getting them a job of patrolling the outlaying village lands to stave off any orcs.

Myriene would not believe them real until she saw them with her own eyes, and then she wished she hadn’t. They had horrible grey, mottled skin with nightmarish eyes and pointed ears and teeth. Her mother was quick, and killed several of them swiftly as they tried to raid the village, and Myriene had gutted one on the end of her little sword as it ran towards her with a terrible animalistic screech.

Her blade had been coated in black blood afterward; the smell had made her stomach churn.

Her mother had worried news of them would spread to outlaying towns because of their oddness… but her fears were unfounded and each new village they went to not one person had heard of them or anyone alike.

A year passed, and they had settled in a large town named Belegorn, several leagues far from the Blue Mountains. They did not use false names there, for the fears of retribution from the people of Westeros were dormant. Her mother walked down the street not as Catelyn or Jossei or any of the stolen names she had hidden herself with. She strode as Brienne of Tarth, a shieldmaiden from the Far Eastern Lands.

She now worked as one of the guards on the stonewall surrounding the town, and helped train the whelps in the yard, Myriene included. Many of the townsfolk had not been sure how to take the Easterners when they had arrived, but after weeks of hard work and humble behaviour they were slowly accepted.

Although Myriene was comfortable sleeping the barracks with her mother, they had got a small little ramshackle house not far from the guard keep. It was whitewashed, with a thatched, dome-like roof and hard earth floors. They did not have much in the way of furniture, owning nothing but a single bed, a chest, stove, table and stools but to Myriene, it felt like home.

Despite Myriene’s feelings of homesickness, she rather liked Belegorn and its people. They were hard-worn, god-fearing, humble folk with a love for ale, food and work. Most of them were human, but it was in the town square that Myriene had her first encounter with another race.

To be fair, it was more of a look than an encounter, for Myriene had spied the dwarf across the square at a food stall. He was quite short, probably up to Myriene’s shoulder, with a stocky body, great big arms and a mass of hair. She had never seen so much hair, a shiny brown mane with a long, long beard so far grown the dwarf could have tucked it into his belt. It was braided, with beads on the end of them, and they glittered with gemstones and precious metals in the sunlight.

It was quite a sight to behold, and Brienne had tutted at her for staring so long.

Fortunately, it was not the last dwarf she saw. Over the weeks, as Myriene trained with the other whelps, she saw many dwarves pass the keep, some even stopping to work in the great forge of the guard keep.

She learnt that they were very proud, very loud and very skilled with their trade. At first she had spied at them from one of the upper-levels of the guard keep when not training, just watching them work with great ferocity but little by little she found herself slowly watching not from the other end of the yard, but leaning against the door way of the forge of itself.

It apparently was a good thing to do, as dwarves took to showing off to an audience whatever chance they got. The one who most enjoyed her silent company was a dwarf named Hogror, who had keen dark eyes and even darker hair. Like many of the guards, he had mistaken her for a boy at first because of her short hair and training clothes, but had apologized when Myriene had corrected him. He forged many new swords for the guards during his stay, replacing the poorly made human ones that they had once used, and always made sure to show off his prowess if Myriene was watching him whilst he did it.

Even she had to admit, it was quite impressive.

When he left to return home to the Blue Mountains, he had given her a little tiny sword, meant for a toy or pendant, as a present and she had hugged him. It was rather quiet without him around once he left.

Her mother had no appreciated her ‘meddling’ with dwarves, and had shooed her away from the keep after training many times after she learnt of the little sword. She did not, however, take if off of her.

After training at the keep, and her mother was not on duty, they often had dinner in the local tavern. It offered slabs of greasy meat, brown bread and roast vegetables Myriene had never heard of before although they were filling. The tavern was always very loud, very smoky from the fire pit in the centre of the room and always, always smelly. Myriene enjoyed it far too much, especially when there was brawl.

Another thing that Myriene learnt was that unlike in Westeros, the seasons changed every few months not every few years. It went from spring to summer far too quickly, and it was spirally closer to autumn every day. It made her uncomfortable, although her mother seemed completely unaffected by it.

Her mother was unaffected by a lot of things.

Bruises, insults, bear claws and cold were only a few of the things Brienne of Tarth seemed to be immune too. Not even sad memories or thoughts seemed to soften her, and it made Myriene wonder sometimes what _could_ make her mother succumb. 


	2. Darker Than Coal

Belegorn was prone to travelling dwarves from the Blue Mountains, most of them coming for supplies, food and more importantly, trade.  
Myriene had been told countless times that dwarves did not grow their own crops, and cared only for the riches beneath the earth. It all seemed quite silly to her, for all that dwarves boasted of mountains filled with limitless wealth they certainly didn’t have limitless food.  
But the dwarves from the Blue Mountains were not overflowing with gold or many gems, but coal.

Carts and carts of obsidian-like coal.

Because of its vast quantities, coal was cheaper to buy than charcoal, and it often fell on Myriene’s shoulders to buy it for the Guard Keeps’ forge. So much so, she had grown quite friendly with the peddler she generally bought from. A dwarf by the name of Vîngh, who was rather old and kindly. He always smiled when he saw her, and always put a little bit more of the fuel in the sack than what she had paid for.

So it was quite a surprise when she met someone else manning the stall.

The unfamiliar dwarf stood a touch smaller than Myriene, with dark brown hair and imposing, azure eyes. He looked out of place, like a Targaryen in the snow. 

And he looked very, very grumpy.

“Can I help you?” He asked her, leaning against the wooden wheel of the cart. Two youthful dwarrows were roughhousing behind him, laughing and cursing as they tried to tumble each other into the dirt.

Myriene swallowed, she did not like the way he was eyeing her like a street urchin. “A sack of coal, for the Guard Keep.” 

“Guard Keep? You expect me to believe that, lass?” 

“Aye.” 

“You a servant girl, then?” 

“Nay.”

He scoffed and placed a hand on his hip, “Then what are you?”

“A whelp.”

“Men don’t let their lasses fight. You don't fool me.”

“I am no liar, master dwarf.” Myriene shifted; jaw tightening at the accusations. 

“You carry no weapon, you have no training leathers and look more like a milk maid than a shield maid.” This elicited a laugh from the two youths behind the strange dwarf, who had momentarily stopped their play to listen in on the conversation. 

Myriene felt herself flush, from both anger and embarrassment, but she pushed aside her cloak to expose the hilt of her blade to the dwarrow in front of her. 

Tension filled the air thick enough to slice, and it was the dwarf scowled. With a dark look, he picked up the battered shovel and filled a dirty hemp sack full of glittering black lumps of coal. The two youths behind him shifted uncomfortably, and went back to their play. 

When he handed it to her, he said no apology and took the silver coin with a curled upper lip. 

Dwarves, Myriene learnt, did not like it when you hurt their pride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Myriene's first encounter with Thorin Oakenshield, and Fíli and Kíli!
> 
> I know it's short, but there's going to be more chapters I promise. It's just that these scenes were all in one chapter but it looked really wrong so I had to split them up into separate chapters. 
> 
> Don't worry, I promise the others will be a lot longer!
> 
> Please forgive my mediocre writing skills -_-;;
> 
> Thank you for Kudos you guys gave me, I was so happy to have gotten them so quickly!


	3. Spit and Blood

The training yard smelt of blood and sweat, and the air was filled with the sound of two boys sparring in the centre with wooden swords.

Myriene stood silently near the back of the group of onlookers, all of them whelps themselves, and tried to ignore the horrible odour coming off of her comrades. The trainer, Sir Borgem, stood on the opposite side of the yard with calculating eyes as the boys once again danced around each other. 

The two boys in the centre, one a brunette, the other a redhead, were getting dangerously close to doing real damage. Both of them were splitting blood, their lips split and their noses bleeding. A nasty bruise had started to form on the redhead’s shoulder.

“HIT ‘IM WHERE IT ‘URTS ‘AROD!” Someone yelled in front of her, throwing a fist into the air and raising hoots from the others beside him.  
“KICK HIM INTO THE DUST!” Another hollered.

“MAKE HIM PISS BLOOD FOR WEEKS!”

As another round of hooting filled the air, the brunette lunged forward, aiming to swipe the redhead’s legs out from under him but as he did so the redhead brought down the hilt of his training sword and whacked the back of the brunette’s head. It sent the brunette down, letting out a cry as he cracked his forehead on the cobblestone ground.

“YIELD! YIELD! I YIELD HAROD!” He cried clutching at his head and howling as the redhead, Harod, brought another crashing blow down on him with the flat of his wooden blade. 

With each cheer of the group, Harod continued to whack at his fallen brother-in-arms, laughing as he begged for Harod to stop.

“ENOUGH! HAROD STOP YOUR ANTICS!” Sir Borgem yelled, and the yard fell silent except for the whimpering of the whelp. “IF I HAD A BETTER MIND I’D CANCEL THIS MATCH AND MAKE IT FORFEIT!” 

The group fell silent, and Harod stepped away from the whimpering loser and dropped his wooden blade to the ground with a clatter.  
“Someone take Walder to the infirmary,” A servant is quick to help the brunette from the ground, and quickly leads him away towards the large door at one end of the yard. “Who should go next?”

“JON!” Someone yelled beside Myriene and another round of yells erupt in the air as the others make their suggestions known. 

“I KNOW! THE LASS! THE EASTERN LASS!” Harod yelled whilst he stared defiantly at the trainer.

Sir Borgem, smiled and nodded, “Aye. The lass… this shall be entertaining.” 

Myriene tried not to shudder as her brothers-in-arms part for her to walk towards Harod, noting the spots of dried blood on the ground as she does so. She picked up Walder’s dropped wooden sword, and got into position. The sword is made much too big for her, so she holds it like a broad sword and spreads her feet as Harod took his stance in front of her.

“You owe me a fight, bitch.” He sneers, smirking at her as he swings his sword in his gloved hands.

“A Lannister always pays her debts.” 

Blood can fill debts better than gold coins can not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, it's short again... forgive me.
> 
> This story is unBETA'd so please forgive any inaccuracies you see, and please point them out for me! 
> 
> Another chapter might be uploaded tonight as well!  
> I also might come back to these short chapters and lengthen them in the near future
> 
> Kudos and Comments would be fabulous as well c:


	4. Children of the Forest

“What do you thinks elves look like?” Myriene asked, playing with the flimsy knife they had been given to eat their meal with. The tip buried in the grain of the wood, and she twirled it in a circle.

Brienne looked at her daughter over the noise of the rowdy tavern, a frown pulling at her lips down at one side as she gave Myriene a steady look.

“You know better than I.” This ended their conversation for a few moments, letting the noise of the rowdy patrons fill their silence before Myriene gained the courage to continue talking.

“I have been thinking…” 

“Aye?” Brienne asked with a small sigh. 

“When I was little you told me about the Children of the Forest… the little people who used to live in the forest before the First Men killed them?”

“Aye.”

“Do you... do you think they were elves?” Myriene watched as her mother slowed her eating, pondering on her words.

“Maybe. But my own father always said that the Children of the Forest never existed.”

“That’s what they say about elves and dwarves in Westeros and look what—“

“Not true little cub.”

“Pardon?”

“They say dwarves exist in Westeros.”

Myriene tilted her head in befuddlement as Brienne started to smile.

“Just not the bearded kind.”

“I thought Tyrion Lannister grew a beard.” Myriene scoffed, and tried not to scowl after discovering her mother had lead her on. 

“Maybe. They also say he’s a demon monkey.”

Their laughter was drowned out by the sound of a group of drunken men yelling across the bar, spilling their ale on the flagstone floors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short again forgive me! The next chapter is going to be much longer, I assure you.
> 
> Discussing the Children of the Forest, and I know that George R R Martin specifically said the CotF are NOT elves and they look nothing like elves... but for the sake of the story just... they're elves okay forgive me!
> 
> all of the short chapters might be subject to change (mostly lengthening) in the future.  
> If you see any mistakes or inaccuracies please tell me!
> 
> Also, the first mention of Tyrion Lannister c:
> 
> thank you for your comments and kudos!


	5. Contracts made with Coal

As Myriene stood guard outside Sir Borgem’s rooms, she had not expected to see a familiar, grumpy face.

 

But he was not the dusty, coal-peddler in torn clothes, for he wore princely clothes of rich blue fabric and a coat lined with fur. A sword was strapped to his waist, the blade strange and angular and the hilt thick and heavy.

 

Some of Myriene’s anxiety vanished when she saw who walked beside him, Sir Dorn, the Captain of the Guard’s personal steward.

 

“Is Borgem busy?” Sir Dorn asked her kindly, hands folded in front of him.

 

“No Sir.” She answered, and Sir Dorn knocked on the door once and let himself in.

 

As they walked in, she felt the dwarrow’s gaze burn into the side of her head as she turned to look down the corridor again.

 

They did not leave until the clock tower’s large bells had rung twice, and it was the dwarf who left first, shoulder squared as he marched down the corridor. The heels of his boots were made of a dark, burnished metal, and the sound they made as he stomped down the corridor seemed to echo through the whole building.

 

“Dwarves,” Sir Dorn’s voice growled beside Myriene, making her jump. “They don’t like being told what to do.”

 

“Aye, apparently so.” Myriene answered, and Sir Dorn smiled at her.

 

“You can leave, Sir Borgem will be fine without you here.” He said and it was Myriene’s turn to smile.

 

“Are you sure, Sir?”

 

“Aye, go. Sir Borgem and I have… private matters to discuss that should not be heard by unsuspecting ears.”

 

“Thank you, Sir.”

 

She waited until Sir Dorn had gone back inside Sir Borgem’s chambers before she left her post.

 

Belegorn’s Guard Keep was a large, stone structure, built on the town’s protective walls. When Myriene had first seen it, she had likened it to a castle because of its turret that climbed up into the sky to give a view across the plains and the Blue Mountains in the distance. She liked climbing up there sometimes, to view them, but today she thought she ought to find her mother.

 

With a hop and a skip, Myriene ran down the corridor and turned the corner towards the wooden staircase that lead to the training yard. It was empty beside two senior guards, who walked the perimeter, talking quietly. One of them was Sir Beren, a guard Myriene had grown to know as a mentor although he constantly tutted at her ‘Easterling’ behaviour.

 

“Sir Beren!” Myriene cried, and smiled when he turned to face her, raising a hand to silence his companion.

 

“What is it, Myriene?” He asked, his eyes shining brightly. Out of all of the senior guards, Sir Beren was the least bitter. At 64 summers, he was old, but he trod the earth like a youth and his face was kindly.

 

“Have you seen my mother?”

 

At her question, Sir Beren only shook his head and walked off with his companion, and Myriene continued on through a small corner-door.

 

The mess hall was empty save a few guards; the barracks full of sleeping men, and Brienne was not to be found in the armoury either.

 

She then ventured, cautiously, into the more formal areas of the Guard Keep towards the vaulted entrance hall and the reception courtyard.

 

But as she was about to cross the yard towards another door, an unexpected voice made Myriene jump, hand on the hilt of her blade.

 

“Hey, look, Fíli, it’s that lass!”

 

It was the younger youth from the coal-cart, although this time he wasn’t covered in dust and wore a jerkin of copper-coloured leather.  His glossy brunette hair was brushed and braided, glittering beads of a silver metal Myriene had never seen before tying them off. There was a mischievous smile upon his face that spoke of his youth, but the beginnings of a beard upon his face threw Myriene off completely.

 

“So it is.” His companion was almost unrecognizable without the darkening of coal dust. Instead of the light brown hair Myriene had thought the dwarrow had was actually blond; brushed and braided so it shone like spun-gold in the sunlight. He, too, had silvery beads in his braids although they were much more finely engraved. “You know, Kíli, I don’t much like lasses with short hair.”

 

Myriene snorted, “And I don’t much like men with small cocks and yet here _you_ are.”

 

“ _Myriene Storm_.”

 

Myriene swallowed hard as her heart dropped to her stomach, and she turned around to face her mother, dressed in her full armour with her broadsword hanging from her waist.

 

“ _If I ever hear you utter words like that again not even Kings Landing will hear you scream.”_

 

She hung her head and the two dwarrows beside her started to laugh, which made Myriene’s cheeks burn.

 

“Yes Mother.” Myriene said and she straightened up, only to see that Fíli and Kíli had stopped laughing.

 

Mostly because the grumpy dwarf that had left Sir Borgem’s chambers just before had given them the coldest stare Myriene had ever seen.

 

“Forgive me, my lady, for my sister-sons’ behaviour.” He ground out, although this apology was not made out to Myriene, but to Brienne.

 

Brienne frowned, the left side of her lips tugged down more by a scar on her chin and said, “It is not I you should apologise too, nor is it you that should apologise on their behalf. They are almost grown, are they not Master Oakenshield?”

 

“Aye.” The dwarf, Master Oakenshield, glared a second time at his sister-sons.

 

Fíli and Kíli then looked at Myriene from where she stood, and she felt her cheeks flush again as they mumbled an apology. Their apology seemed to be satisfactory enough for him, for he gestured to Fíli and Kíli to follow him when he walked out the courtyard and into the hallway, toward the entrance hall.

 

Once out of sight, Brienne turned to Myriene and growled, “Myriene, I thought you to be guarding Sir Borgem’s chambers, what are you doing here?”

 

“Sir Dorn dismissed me after the d-- Oakenshield left so I went to find you.”

 

“You did not ask why he dismissed you?”

 

“Yes but he just said that Sir Borgem would be fine on his own and that they had private matters to discuss—“

 

“Did he say what kind of private matters?”

 

“Nay, that is why he dismissed me!” Myriene retorted, anger rising. “Where were you during this anyway; weren’t you supposed to be with Sir Jorge?”

 

“Sir Jorge asked me to meet with the Captain from the Blue Mountains.” At that, Brienne glanced away from Myriene and swallowed before looking back again.

 

“Why were you meeting with captains from the Blue Mountains?” She snapped, crossing her arms across her chest. “What is _so_ important that I can be insulted but not allowed to insult back?”

 

Brienne dipped her head before saying briskly, “Walk with me.”

 

Annoyed, Myriene followed her mother into the entryway but they did not turn towards the entry hall but back toward the training yard.

 

“Master Oakenshield is trying to broker a deal with Sir Borgem and the Captain of the Guard for protection of his lands in the Blue Mountains. Our protection in exchange for coal… and gold.” Brienne explained, hand resting on the hilt of her sword as she walked. “What you just said could have damaged the potential contract, Myriene, do you realise what that could mean for us?”

 

“The dwarves can eat pig shi—“

 

“If the contract goes unsigned by Thorin Oakenshield over what just happened in the courtyard, you can be held personally responsible for the damage. Belegorn needs the bond with the Blue Mountains, Sir Borgem and the Captain desperately want the gold. And they will do _anything_ to get it.”

 

“What has that go to do—“  
  
“Dwarves do not like it when they are insulted, let alone talked down to by a woman. They hold grudges and only let them go when the person on the other side of it has been dealt with accordingly.”

 

The air gushed out of Myriene’s lungs as Brienne turned abruptly, grabbing her shoulders and pinning her against the rough stonewall.

 

“What is your father’s sigil?”

  
“A-A lion!” Myriene choked out, eyes wide in shock.

 

“Good. What are his Words?”

 

“A Lann—“

  
Brienne shoved Myriene harder against the wall, causing more air to escape her lungs.

 

“What. Are. His. _Words_?”

 

“H-HEAR ME ROAR!”

 

“Listen to me, not as half a Lannister but as half a Tarth. _Do not roar_.” Brienne breathed into her daughter’s fearful face. “I will not let you get yourself killed over a petty grudge and gold. _Do you understand?”_

Myriene nodded sharply, and she tumbled into her mother’s arms as Brienne released the pressure on her shoulders.

 

"I love you, little cub." Brienne whispered into her ear, and Myriene felt a wetness on her scalp as her mother rested her forehead against it.

 

"I love you too." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It annoys me when fanfiction writers forget that teenagers get stroppy, and Myriene is definitely one to get stroppy. Including Dwarrow teenagers!
> 
> Couldn't you tell that Sir Borgem was a cock in chapter three?
> 
> ALSO:  
> Yes, Myriene's name is technically Myriene Storm, being a bastard and all.
> 
> Bastard last names are dictated by the region that they were born/raised in, like in Jon Snow's case. Snow because he's technically "from" the North. In Myriene's case it's Storm because Brienne is from the Stormlands (the island of Tarth being in them). 
> 
> If you want to get technical, it should be Myriene Hill, because her father is Jaime Lannister (as you could tell from the tag!) but because of reasons (that will be discussed later) she was named Storm instead.


	6. For the Sake of Blood

The night’s air was bitter, laced with ice and snow and Myriene wished desperately for the sun to rise so she could go home.

 

The bridge above the Western Bridge was the least sheltered guard post, and many guards took slop duty over taking post there. It was the most rickety, and the stone walls were missing patches of morter so much that it swayed in heavy winds.

 

Night watch over the western gate entrance was always the most uncomfortable, as it got whipped viciously by the gales coming over the Blue Mountains.

 

Myriene sheltered in the alcove on the bridge above the gate, huddled against the stone and looking over the edge. A brazier of coal burnt beside her, the acrid smell permeated the air and blackened the stone above the flames. It did little to keep her warm in the fierce cold. It made her wonder what it was like for those poor men on The Wall.

 

Past the walls of Belegorn, a few pinpricks of light could be seen along the road to the mountains; guard caravans protecting the path. Over the past months the captain of the guard had started to send out human patrols, most of them fit young men from the barracks who were too fresh-faced in Myriene’s opinion, to protect the road.

 

A lot of the guards had come back after a few days shifts and laughed at the strange dwarves they had started to work with. Her mother had started to go on a lot of those guard caravans, and the few days she had been home she didn’t speak of what she had been doing there.

 

It frustrated Myriene deeply, especially as her mother had forbidden her to join her.

 

In retaliation to her mother’s distant behaviour, she had taken to picking up other’s guard shifts manning the gates. Unfortunately, this meant she had to put up with Algar, a former blacksmith’s apprentice with a silver tongue and sharp eyes.

 

There was nothing particularly wrong with Algar, but his smooth words and good looks made Myriene distinctly uncomfortable.

 

Tonight however, Algar was more interested in ‘guarding’ the inner wall, where a whore was being shoved up against the side of a tavern near the gate.

 

“Will you stop being a peeping tom, Algar?” Myriene snapped at him after a while and scowled when her companion turned to face her with a raised eyebrow.

 

“I’m only looking out for the good folk of Belegorn.” His dark eyes caught the light of the near-by brazier, making them flash handsomely in the near dark.

 

“Oh, I’m _sure_ you are.” Myriene turned away from him, peeping her head over the ledge of the bridge. As expected, nobody was waiting to be let in, and the darkness of the night blacked out the countryside except for the tiny beacons of lights coming from the Guard caravans.  “Don’t know why they send us out here when there are guards all along the road.”

  
“Because the good folk of Belegorn aren’t that good,” She heard Algar chuckle, and there was a clink of iron as he picked up a pair of tongs and grasped a white hot coal from the brazier.

 

Myriene turned in alarm, “What are—“

 

With a raised finger to silence her, Algar took aim towards the couple by the tavern wall where the man had started to punch the whore; he pulled the tongs back and lobbed the hot coal over the edge of the bridge.

 

It hit the back of the man’s head and Myriene rushed across the bridge to see him pull back from the whore with a scream and start to brush the back of his head frantically.

 

The whore ran from her attacker, glancing up at the bridge with look of petrified thanks and escaped up the high street.

 

“Will he be okay?” Myriene asked quietly, watching the man throw himself onto the ground as the back of his cotton tunic caught fire. The two guards guarding the gate below resolutely ignored him as he screamed and rolled in the dirty snow.

 

“Pig-fucker will be fine, but I’m sure he’s learnt his lesson.” Algar chuckled grimly, watching the man writher in disgust.

 

“Sir Borgem is going to kill you.” Myriene huffed and turned away from the man, leaning her back against the wall.

 

“I'm doing the man a favour, the man can barely control his own guards let alone the criminals in this town.”

 

 “You do this often, do you? Trying to burn people alive?”

  
The accusation made Algar straighten up with a look of anger, but Myriene paid him no mind.

 

“You shouldn’t be insulting people who can easily trample you, little girl.” He growled and Myriene let out a bitter laugh.

 

“I’m sure my mother would love to hear your threats, Algar.”

 

“If she’s even your mother.” He spat back.

 

“What?” Myriene pivoted on her heel, face flushed and shoulders squared.

 

Algar smirked darkly at her reaction, and took two steps towards the alcove on the opposite end of the bridge.

 

“She can’t honestly be a woman, with that nose and that height? If she is, then she’s the ugliest woman I have ever laid eyes on!”

 

“Shut your mouth!” Myriene yelled, red fury throbbing in her veins. How dare he call her mother ugly? What did he know of _beauty_ when he was very well known to fuck the ugly kitchen maids!

 

“Oh looks like I’ve made little girl angry!” His tone full of mockery, Algar started to circle her like a giant bird of prey. It made Myriene’s shoulders rise uncomfortably, and she pivoted again to face him when he stepped behind her. “Tell me, little girl, does _Lady_ Brienne have a cock beneath that shiny Eastern armour?”

  
  
_“NO!”_

 

Algar laughed at her and crossed his arms across his leather jerkin. Heat burnt Myriene’s face, and she had her fists clenched tightly at her sides, the fingernails digging into her palms.

 

“You Eastern women get angry so easily,” He goaded. “If she is really your mother, who’s your father eh? She has never claimed to be married, not that I blame them.”

 

“MY FATHER— MY—my father…” She couldn’t speak, a lump had risen in her throat as tears started to burn in her eyes. “M-my father is Ser Jaime! Of the House Lannister! Lord Commander of the King’s Guard and—and…”

 

Algar started to laugh.

 

A cold, bitter mocking laugh that made his head fall back and the laugh to bounce off the high stonewalls. 

 

“Oh I’m sure that your father is… a ‘Lord Commander’ whatever that may be—“

 

“Taunting children? That is low, even for you Algar son of Algred.” A dark voice called from behind them and they both turned around to see Sir Dorn in the threshold of the narrow stairwell.

 

A heavy fur coat hung over his shiny steel armour, his long and crooked nose was pink from cold and tiny flecks of snow had settled in his greying brown hair. 

 

And his watery brown eyes were turned on Algar in contempt.

 

“Er, Sir Dorn thi—“

  
  
“Save your breath,” Sir Dorn cut off, his eyes narrowed. A sick sense of glee filled Myriene’s stomach when Algar squirmed uncomfortably. “This is not what I had hoped to see amongst my guard. Acting like petty children and creating rifts amongst new recruits?”

 

“No it is not, Sir.” Algar bowed his head, but through his curtain of dark brown hair Myriene could see his eyes turned to her with a sneer on his lips.

 

Satisfied with Algar’s sudden turn to apparent humility, Sir Dorn turned his gaze to Myriene. “It seems you have a raven, Myriene. A message from the East.”

 

“Huh?” Cold dread started to settle in Myriene’s stomach. How had a raven found her here? They had run from the East, so far from the East the seasons were different and the people as well. Who would be writing to her, of all people? 

 

Sir Dorn held out his hand, where a tightly furled scroll sat in his palm.

 

A red wax seal held it closed, a lop-sided lion pressed into the centre, which had melted from the heat of its carrier’s hand. It was the very same sigil that Myriene had seen on the letters her mother used to receive from their cabin in The Rills when they had hidden in the North.

 

“Go on, lass, take it, we don’t have all night now.” Sir Dorn chastised and Myriene walked forward slowly to take it from his hand. Her knees had gone weak, her palms grown sweaty and her fingers shook as she took the scroll.

 

_To Myriene_ was written above the wax seal in minute, elegant if cramped, letters.

 

“It is best I take my leave, I have a meeting in a few hours with the dwarf captain.” Sir Dorn said distastefully, but Myriene did not hear.

 

The tiny scroll could hold anything in her fingers. A threat. A warning that they were coming to kill her and her mother. Lannisters, after all, were ruthless this Myriene knew. So ruthless that a song had been written about her grandfather that Myriene still hummed sometime when she woke from nightmares.

 

“Aren’t you going to open it?” Algar sneered from behind her; his figure blocked half the light from the brazier.

 

“Not when someone else can see…” Myriene bemused lightly before saying, “Oh wait… you can’t read.”

 

He scoffed behind her, not impressed nor insulted by Myriene’s remark, and Myriene scowled again when her words did not hit their mark. Grumbling she crossed across the bridge past Algar to the opposite brazier and took a seat on the rickety stool beside it.

 

It was obvious why the right side of the bridge was not favoured, for the wind was strong and bitter there and snow had whipped through the windows, coating the wooden walkway with ice. Not even the heat from the brazier kept the cold off, and her fingers grew very numb as she took her gloves off to snap the wax seal.

 

The message unfurled too easily and Myriene’s stomach sunk lower with every breath as she looked upon the letter in her hand and started to read.

 

 

> _To my niece Myriene,_
> 
> _For almost two years I have spent trying to find you and your mother, and I want to congratulate you on hiding from sight for as long as you have._
> 
> _Unfortunately now is not the time for pleasantries. Stannis Baratheon has taken a ship with a league of a ninety men to continue what they started in Evenfall Hall with the murder of your mother’s father._
> 
> _His intent is to kill both you and your mother who will try and stand in his way._
> 
> _Lannister blood runs through your veins like it runs through mine, and if your mother has taught you anything than you should know that even the proudest of lions can get impaled by a stag’s antlers._
> 
> _I know it will be hard to trust the word of a man you have never met but for the sake of blood, I beg of you to flee. Jaime, your father, is riding North as I write this but do not put your hopes in him finding you. He is not as young as he once was, and he has not swung a sword and drawn blood in many years. Stannis will arrive long before he will._
> 
> _Your uncle,_
> 
> _Tyrion Lannister_
> 
>  

“So, what does it say, o’ reader of chicken scratch?” Algar mocked behind but his face turned solemn when he saw Myriene’s ashen face.

 

“I-I-I—“ Myriene began but before she could finish she burst into tears and Algar jogged towards her, bending down in front of her.

 

“What is it?” Algar asked, eyes wide. “Look, I’m sorry about befor—“

  
“Nay, th-that isn’t it!” Myriene choked out, fingers twisting the parchment in her hands. “I-I have to find my mother p-please—“

 

“Where is she?”

 

“On patrol on the road.” At this Myriene started to sob, hands shaking.

 

There was no doubt her behaviour was disturbing Algar, who had become used to Myriene’s usually dour, Eastern temperament. He knelt in front of her, unsure of what to do besides place a comforting hand on her shoulder.

 

“I’m sure Sir Eorman can send out a scout tomorrow to find your mother’s party—“

  
  
“No! This is important if I don’t find her now I-I—“ Myriene cried and surprised Algar by grabbing the arm that had a hand on her shoulder. “Please help me p-please?”

 

“Wha— no! You’re just—stop crying!” Algar snapped but his resolve crumbled as Myriene’s grip on his arm tightened she looked desperately at him with pleading blue eyes.

 

“If you don’t help me I’m going to die.” Her voice was cold and flat despite the tears on her face and the wobbling of her lips. “Men will come to rape me and slit my throat if you don’t help me.”

 

Myriene’s grip on his arm tightened, locking eyes with Algar as his face dropped as she started to cry again.

 

“Please help me,” She pleaded, dropping from the chair and knotting her cold little hands in his flimsy leather jerkin. “Please!”

 

Algar swallowed, his Adams apple bobbing, “What do we have to do?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN DUN DUN
> 
> Also, what's this? Is Jaime coming to Middle-Earth? Is Stannis Baratheon a merciless killer of young children? Does Algar really have relations with ugly kitchen wenches? 
> 
> It has roughly been about four months since the last chapter, meaning it's close to being in the dead of winter. 
> 
> I have a feeling I didn't quite capture Tyrion in his message to Myriene.
> 
> Algar will be playing a role in this fic, and I sort of envision him as a mixture between Guy of Gisborne and Jaqen H’ghar in looks. 
> 
> This chapter feels a bit rushed, so I might come back to edit it later... as with much of my other chapters.


	7. Go South for Snow

The yard was quiet, save for the sounds of sleeping horses. The chamber windows overlooking the yard were dark, and no one was on the twisting verandahs. No guards needed to stand post there, the area considered too protected to have any, which Myriene thought was a stupid thought. But Nestled on the furthest side of the yard were the stables, a simple hovel-like structure made of  wattle and daub walls and a thatched roof of golden hay. Although the gates were shut, several horses were inside and huddled against a wall on the opposite end of the yard, Myriene and Algar stood looking cautiously around for guards.

 

“Let me get this straight, you want _me_ to go to the stable and _steal a hors_ _e?_ ” Algar hissed at Myriene in a whisper.

 

“Aye.” Myriene replied simply, eyes still red and puffy but she had ceased crying when they had run across the town to the Keep. Algar heavily suspected he had been duped by her tears.

 

“Have you gone mad?”

 

“Aye.” She shoved on Algar’s arm roughly, edging him towards the stables as he eyed her incredulously.

 

“If I get hanged for this I’ll—“

 

“Be dead.” Myriene hissed at him, “Get the horse!”

 

She heard him curse under his breath, but he looked quickly over the yard and upon seeing none there beside himself, snuck across the cobblestone.

 

With her heart pounding again in her chest, she watched Algar open the gate of the stable and go inside where a horse whinnied quietly. There was a vague thump, and a curse but it did not take long for Algar to re-emerge, leading a dark chestnut mare out into the yard.

 

With every clip of its hooves on the cobblestone, Myriene winced along with Algar. But as she hurriedly look around, no one came to investigate the noise and both Algar and horse made it onto the dirt path safely.

 

“What now?” Algar said, hands tight around the reigns.

 

“We need to stop at my house to collect a few things, then we can go.” Myriene said, glad to see the horse had been saddled. “Do you know how to ride?”

 

Algar licked his lips and shook his head reluctantly, “No.”

 

Myriene suppressed a groan, but hitched her foot in one of the stirrups and hoisted herself up onto the horse, which bayed its head in response. She held out her hand and helped Algar up onto the beast as well.

 

“My house is not far, do not bother to dismount.” She told him, kicking the horse into a walk. Algar swayed behind her and quickly held onto Myriene’s waist.

 

They encountered no one on the road, and when they reached Myriene’s humble abode she quickly hopped off the horse and tied the reigns to fence post.

 

She unlocked the door, not surprised to see the inside dark, and rushed to where she knew their chest to be. The light from the open door and the torches outside, she found her way to the chest and kicked away the rough blanket and torn tunics hiding it. The hilt of her mother’s dagger glittered faintly and she picked it up before grabbing one of the empty potato sacks by the fire pit. Slicing one of the tunics they had used to hide the chest into strips, Myriene twined them together and cut two small holes into the sack. Threading them through and knotting them once inside, she made a makeshift rucksack and started to pack important items away.

 

Her mother’s sigil ring she had inherited from her father, a sack of golden Dragons, the small, locked wooden box her mother brought everywhere with her but never opened and of course, her mother’s dagger on top.

 

Precious things packed away, Myriene then threw in a few tunics and breeches, some apples and slightly stale bread, an empty water skin and she then rushed over to the bed, scooping hay away from the frame to find it.

 

The little sword pendant Hogror had given her almost a year before.

 

She pulled the leather string that held it around her neck and tucked it beneath her breastplate. It fell wedged between her chainmail and padding, although wasn’t uncomfortable and she doubled checked it was tied before she walked out the house again.

 

Algar took the rucksack from her when Myriene held it out for him to hold and mounted the horse again. She then tied the rucksack to the pummel of the saddle so that it rested between her legs and pouched up around her belly.

 

“How long do you think it will take to find her?” Algar asked, his hands finding hold on her waist yet again as Myriene twisted in the saddle to get comfortable. Most horses were too big for her; this mare was no different.

 

“As long as it takes.” Myriene shrugged and kicked the horse into a gallop.

 

They twisted around the narrow dirt paths between cramped roundhouses until they reached one of the cobblestoned main streets. Two taverns stood open, their patrons far too drunk and rowdy to pay attention to the two on horseback and Myriene kicked the mare towards the church.

 

It steepled into the sky, the great oak doors stood open and the dim light of prayer candles could be seen through them as Myriene twisted her horse around in the centre of the crossroads.

 

“We cannot go through the West gate,” Myriene panted, heading looking down each path as she led the horse in a circle. “They will know we have abandoned our post.”

 

“South Gate,” Algar said behind her, “I know the man manning the gate tonight! He’ll let us through.”

 

The mare whinnied again as it was kicked again and galloped down the street, this time drawing the attention of an old crone at the window of her house.

 

But they had spend down the street too fast to hear what she had yelled and darted towards the South Gate.

 

When it came into view Myriene slowed the horse down into a gallop, the two guards in command of opening the gate looking at them suspiciously. Dressed in stressed leather armour with only a battered steel plate across their breasts to protect their hearts, Myriene knew she could probably cut them down but it was unlikely she’d ever make it out of the city if she did.

 

“Girl…Algar? Is tha’ yeh?” One of them called out, and Myriene slipped a little when Algar twisted behind her to poke his head around her.

 

“Let us through, Fergyl, this is important.” He said, and the guard, Fergyl, raised an eyebrow.

 

“Wha’ feh?”

 

“Open the gate, I’ll tell you when we arrive back.” This time Fergyl listened, although his shoulders slumped and he took hold off one of the giant rings handing from the door to open it.

 

Before the other guard even started to open the other one, Myriene kicked the horse again, hard, so that it reared up and then galloped forward with a loud neigh.

 

The two guards shouted behind them, but there was no sound of assailing arrows so they had escaped the city without much issue. The next problem, however, was leading the horse through the dark as the light from Belegorn faded as they raced forward.

 

“When will we be able to turn west?” Myriene shouted over her shoulder, where Algar’s hands were digging her chainmail and padding into her waist.  

 

“There’s a path through the gathering trees a few hours forward from here. Used to live near there.” He answered, and there was a whine in his voice that Myriene knew he had gained from sitting on his manhood. Despite the whipping cold air and the snow making her toes numb, Myriene couldn’t help but smirk at her companion’s pain. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I admit, I can't write horse riding scenes at all forgive me! Also title names and summaries allude me.
> 
> Sorry this chapter is short, it was part of another but they were split into paragraphs and it would've looked silly posting it. Fear not, the other part should be up later tonight after I've edited it some. I highly expect I'll come back to edit this later gah.
> 
> Keep an eye on Algar's speech? Notice anything different between his words compared to the other folks of Belegorn? Take note.
> 
> Okay an explanation on the architecture of Belegorn:
> 
> -I see it being split into two halves architecturally. Old-style buildings like from the First Age/early Second Age which are circular with big cone-like thatched roofing. They're based on Iron Age circular roundhouses! Newer houses are the rectangular boxy kind of buildings like the ones you see in Bree, Rohan, Gondor etc. and of course, Westeros! 
> 
> -Wattle and Daub is like 3,000 year old plasterboard to be honest! Most Medieval houses were made of it, and it consists of either oak, chestnut or apparently hazel or yew (I'm not sure about the last two because they're quite flimsy woods!). The wood is woven to create what is called wattle. Now daub is basically cow manure, earth, clay and straw all in equal portions (I know it sounds gross! But it kept the cold out which was the main thing!). Brienne and Myriene's roundhouse is made of wattle and daub! 
> 
> -Why did I describe the stable as a hovel? A hovel was traditionally an open shed or outbuilding, used for sheltering cattle or storing grain or tools. In this case, horses!


	8. Furiosity in Frost

They rode relentlessly forward; the sun rose but did not bring warmth and glittered off the snow so harshly that Myriene had ended up cutting a strip of fabric from her tunic to create a cloth mask.

 

Algar hadn’t stopped complaining about cramping since dawn, and twisted constantly behind her so much that several times her feet had become dislodged from the stirrup treads.

 

After the fifth time, she had reached behind him and punched his cramping thigh, which had made him curse but sit still. After another mile or so the stopped at a semi-frozen river to break their fast and let the mare have something to drink.

 

Algar sat by the water’s edge, cloak taunt around his arms as he rubbed the inside of his thighs and made groaning noises. With his face turned upwards towards the sun, his brown hair caught the sunlight and was shot with red; his skin furiously pink with windburn.

 

“Why did I ever agree to this?” He groaned, lolling his head back even more with his mouth open. “Why do all little girls have to have big blue eyes and lots of tears?”

 

Myriene scowled wiping snow off the top of a stone and sitting down, “I’m not little!”

 

Rolling his head forward, Algar raised an eyebrow and said, “You look quite little to me. How old are you anyway?”

 

“Almost seventeen.”

 

“Almost? When’s almost?”

 

“Next autumn.”   
  
Algar laughed at her blush, which made her blush even harder. Feeling like a fool, Myriene got up from her seat and went over to her pack hanging off the saddle and pulled out an apple.

 

Before he even had time to ask, she threw it at Algar’s head and pulled out one for herself.

 

“What the hell was that for?” Algar snapped as he shot up from the ground, rubbing his forehead.  His face red from anger he looked close to reaching for his sword when Myriene scowled at him and took a bite out of the apple in her hand. “First you trick me into helping you out of the town, trick me into stealing a horse from the Keep’s stable. Which is punishable by _death_ and you—you repay me by being a _child!”_

Myriene ceased her chewing, looking down at her boots shame-faced.

 

“It amazes even me that I haven’t just left you out here in the snow and gone back to the Keep with horse in hand!” He spat, pacing towards the stream and back again. “I don’t know what goes in that little Eastern head of yours girl, but you _need_ me out here. No human guard or any dwarf guard is going to speak to a little girl armed to the teeth! They’d strike you down thinking you to be a part of a bandit trick!”

 

“I’M NOT—“

 

“YOU’RE A LITTLE, BLONDE GIRL OUT HERE ALL ON YOUR OWN AMA—“ Algar stopped, the dying words on his lips turning his face sour. He turned away from Myriene, crossing his arms stiffly and bowing his head.

 

“Whose—“ Myriene started awkwardly but Algar turned around, a sneer turning his lips up and he walked past her quickly, shoving her shoulder.

 

“Shut up. Let’s just go find your mother and then _we’re done_. You hear me, _done_ , don’t ever speak to me again after this!” He snapped, unhitching the horse’s reigns from the tree on which it was tethered. “Hurry up, you’re the one that knows how to ride!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This so short forgive me! And the title sucks!
> 
> Yes, Algar has a very short temper and Myriene can be a bit of a bratty bitch. So can we all! 
> 
> The next chapter will be long I assure you, I had to split these up because having a paragraphed chapter looks sort of peculiar on AO3. 
> 
> ALSO thank you so much for you kind comments! It had jumped a hundred views whilst I had a nap and got three lovely comments! They really made my night!


	9. Songs and Snow

Snow fell harder as the sun reached its peak in the sky, and by the time it set the sky afire at dusk, the snow lay thick enough on the ground that they had to walk.

 

It brought memories back of struggling past the Wall.

 

But it wasn’t as cold as it had been then and although the wind was strong it did not whip Myriene’s skin raw. It was positively warm compared to that, although the water had frozen in the waterskin and she had had to shove it down between her padding to melt it.

 

Algar hadn’t said a word since the argument by the stream, and walking on the other side of the horse. Despite her bad temper, Myriene had to agree that the man wasn’t stupid because even though the waterskin was frozen solid he bent down every few feet to pick up a bit of fresh snow to melt in his mouth.

 

It took a lot of courage to burn one’s mouth in winter for water.

 

The first night, they didn’t find a single patrolling guard and found a small grove in a hamlet of trees that was almost clear of snow. The few bits of frost that remained Myriene kicked out whilst Algar collected twigs and sticks to try and kindle a fire. It was the first night in a long time that Myriene was truly uncomfortable.

 

When the sun rose, Myriene had had to roast the apples of the fire to soften them. The mare seemed to appreciate the hot fruit and nudged her affectionately after feeding her. Its breath came up in great clouds of steam from the cold as it chewed.

 

 _I should name you Vhagar_ , Myriene mused, stroking the mare’s mane, _after the great Visenya Targaryen’s dragon_. 

 

The second day riding was not much better, the newly named Vhagar whinnying from the cold and Algar’s slow walk. When they stopped at sun-high, it took great bullying for Myriene to find out why.

 

After setting him down under a great pine tree, she rushed through another gathering of trees tearing branches from their trunks and forming a fire near Algar.  

 

It took what felt like a long amount of time for Myriene to get the fire going with the flint and steel, and it smoked great clouds from the sap in the branches but it heated up enough for her to force Algar to pull of his boots.

 

His toes had turned green and red through his thin leather boots, and it was creeping up his feet in a way that made both of them uncomfortable.

 

“Do you think they’re going to freeze off?” Algar asked wide-eyed, swallowing hard. There was a deep look of fear in his eyes that made Myriene almost feel sorry for him.

 

“Nay… it is just a bit of frost-nip but if we do not get the blood flowing soon you will.” Myriene said, but the reassuring tone she tried to use felt foreign and wrong on her tongue.

 

Whilst making sure that Algar was comfortable by the fire, Myriene tore from one of the tunics she had brought into strips and buried them in the snow outside the cluster of trees. Whilst waiting for them to get wet, she scanned the area, noting the Misty Mountains’ silhouette in the sky. No matter where she looked, not a single guard fire burned.

  
She swallowed the lump that rose in her throat and pulled out one of the now wet strips from the snow and returned to camp.

 

“What are you going to do with that?” Algar asked her curiously, eyebrows raised once again, and Myriene didn’t reply. Picking up some of the unburnt sticks from the pile, she started to construct a hanger.  

 

Making sure that the hanger was out of the way of the flames, Myriene hung the dripping strip over it to warm up.  Once damp and hot, she carefully picked it up by the end of her fingers; checked it was not too hot and went over to where Algar lay on the ground. He did not move when she knelt by his feet, just continued to look up at the canopy of pine trees.

 

His feet were as close to the fire as they could be without blistering from the heat, and the top of the feet and ankles had started to lose the horrible yellowed colour. Around Algar’s toes Myriene wrapped the warm, damp cloth and Algar let out a groan.

 

She sat up quickly, somewhat startled by the sound, and as she went to collect the other strips, she kicked Algar’s shin gently.

 

“If you think I’m going to massage your feet like the women do in Lys you’ve got another thing coming!” She scolded him and he laughed, looking up at her with the cheeky smile of a child.

 

That night, although less cold then the last, was far more uncomfortable. Every few hours Myriene would replace the hot bandages until Algar’s toes had lost some of the frostbitten colour whilst he massaged his feet to try and get the blood going. When it was time to settle down to sleep, Algar refused to let her sleep on the other side of the fire for it was colder there and when she did move across to stop his whinging she found herself half in his bedroll.

 

Men, Myriene decided, were very _odd_.

 

 On sun’s rise, they packed up again, Algar using the now dry strips to line his boots and they continued on. It was a blessing that it did not snow again, although the harsh sun made Myriene’s skin burn which she highly preferred thinking it was each time she turned to look at Algar walking behind her.

 

The ground had just started to steep upwards, and Myriene’s anxiety grew and grew, that the path came into view.

 

“Just up ahead!” Algar suddenly called as they started to reach another hamlet of trees, and Myriene jumped and turned to face him.

 

“What?”

  
“The path to turn west is just up ahead, where the boulder is!” He called again and jogged up awkwardly through the snow to where Myriene was with Vhagar.

 

Myriene looked to where Algar pointed when he reached her, to a vast boulder that sat wedged between two pine trees covered in snow. Behind it was the hamlet of trees, but there were quite thick and dark beneath their leaves. Algar seemed excited by the sight and continued to jog towards it after letting out a cry of delight.

 

Scowling, Myriene hurried to join him, Vhagar letting out a neigh as they sped up their walk. The steep climb was harder due to the snow, and several times Myriene almost slipped which gave a cruel twist to her scowl as she reached her companion.

 

“There it is! I haven’t seen it in years…my little sister used to come here all the time. My father’s house is just a little more west.” He said happily, smiling broadly at her as he stomped his feet to get more blood through his toes. Upon seeing Myriene’s lack-lustre expression, he waved his arm at a clearing amongst the trees were the path was.

 

Pine trees overhung the path, a near straight road beneath the trunks with round stones all the edges to indicate it was indeed a way through them. Snow and frost had decorated the pine branches with pretty icicles, which shot little rays of reflected sunlight like crystal.

 

In Myriene’s opinion it looked rather… charming.

 

“Come on, let’s go.” Algar said beside her, taking the reigns from her hand and pulling Vhagar towards the path.

 

Despite his blisters he sure does have a bounce in his step, Myriene thought cynically as she followed him.

 

Her mood brightened somewhat as she walked beneath the trees as the frozen pine needles crunched underfoot. Hopping from one foot to the other she crunched out the tune of _The Bear and The Maiden Fair_ as she walked. And despite the crushing anxiety that had started to eat at her the past couple of days, she started to laugh.

 

“A bear there was, a bear, a bear! All black and brown, and covered in hair—“ She crowed, letting out a laugh that made several birds overheard flee from the trees. “Oh come they said, oh come to the fai—“

“You seem quite happy there.” Algar’s deadpanned comment stopped Myriene half jump, and she felt her face flush furiously. Landing on her feet, and despite her blush she gave Algar a stern look.

 

It was his turn to laugh at Myriene’s stoic reaction.

 

“Stop trying to be like your mother,” He said, shaking his head at her with a smile on his face. “It doesn’t suit you.”

 

“Oh shut your mouth!” She snapped, but then giggled as Algar bent down and scooped some snow into his gloved hands. “DON’T YOU DARE!”

 

The snowball hit her in the chest and she huffed indignantly before quickly reaching down to gather some of snow of her own. With a laugh, Algar quickly darted behind one of the pine trees lining the path to take shelter as Myriene ditched her missile.

 

“Now who’s being a child?!” She laughed as it hit the trunk with a thunk. She quickly bent down low again to make another snow ball and threw it at Algar as he came out to catch Vhagar’s reigns as the horse began to trot off.

 

“Alright, alright you win! No more snow balls or I might lose my handsome nose.” He laughed and Myriene raised a joking eyebrow at him. “I am handsome!”

 

“If you say so.” She teased and darted out of the way when Algar shot out a hand to slap upside the back of the head. “Uh-uh-uh!”

 

Algar snorted but smirked.

 

The rest of the journey through the path was in silence, although Myriene couldn’t help but chuckle every moment or so. The anxiety and increasing sense of dread had almost disappeared for the time being, and it sent a thrill through her that she thought she had lost.

 

Running from people and monsters was something she had done her entire life, and although it had been nice to find peace for a time in Belegorn there was truly nothing like being out in the fresh, open air.

 

Even if the air was frozen and the land unyieldingly getting colder as the sun started to sink beneath the horizon yet again.

 

In higher spirits then before, they made camp in the few remaining trees just off the path and kindled a small fire. Vhagar snuffled through the snow for a while, chomping on the frozen grass beneath and Myriene toast the now thoroughly stale bread over the fire.

 

Myriene and Algar ate in somewhat comfortable silence, pulling their cloaks tightly around themselves as the wind started to whistle through the trees. Much to Myriene’s surprise, Algar obediently looked away when she asked so that she could take her armour off. She piled it haphazardly beside herself but left her padding and put her remaining breeches and tunics on.

 

“Where did you even get armour from anyway?” Algar asked when she said it was now fine for him to turn around again.

 

“A blacksmith.” Myriene replied sardonically.

 

“You know what I mean.”

 

Myriene sighed, “Mother had it commissioned for me before we came to Arda.”

 

“Do they have many warrior maidens in Westro?”

 

“It’s _Westeros_. And nay, they do not.” Myriene answered, shrugging but wincing. The chest plate had cut deep grooves into her shoulders and they stung beneath the harsh fabric of her padding. “There have been a few though, like Visenya Targaryen and Nymeria of the Rhoyne. But they’re long dead.”

 

“Targaryen?”

 

“They were a royal line of monarchs… Aegon the Conqueror took Westeros with his two sister-wives Visenya and Rhaenys Targaryen several thousand years past.” Myriene explained, and felt pleased when she saw Algar’s eyes widen and lean in. “They conquered the Seven Kingdoms with their three dragons. Aegon rode Balerion the Black Dread, Visenya rode Vhagar and Rhaenys rode Meraxes.”

 

“This is all tale, of course?” Algar asked, looking slightly alarmed and intrigued.

 

“Nay,” she said and chuckled at Algar’s shocked expression. “My mother says that the Red Keep in King’s Landing is full of Targaryen dragon skulls. She says they glitter like onyx in the torch light.”

 

“And you believe her?” He scoffed.

 

Myriene frowned, “She has no reason to lie to me, and many people have told me before about Targaryen dragons. Three still exist, to the last three Targaryens.”

 

“The last three?”

 

“There was only one but… well, it’s a long story. I can tell you tomorrow if you—“

 

Algar had raised a hand to silence her.

“Do you hear that?” He whispers, looking away from her towards the trees.

 

Myriene closes her mouth and follows his gaze, listening hard.

 

There’s the sound of wind whistling in the leaves some distance away, Vhagar’s sleepy snuffles, a twittering bird and…

 

Foot steps.

 

Algar gets to his feet quietly, picking up his sword from where it lay beside him and Myriene hesitantly follows him.  
  
Yes, they are footsteps crunching in the snow ahead of them, walking towards them. And not just one it sounded… but two.

 

“Who goes there?” Algar said loudly and sternly, and Myriene feels her anxiety return and her stomach clench tightly.

 

“No, who goes _there_?” A voice returned, as two shadows appeared amongst the trees ahead of them. “A lad and… is that…lass?”

 

 Algar and Myriene took several steps back as the two figures walked into the yard and she realised how unnecessary it was.

 

Snow dusted the tops of their heads and shoulders, several specks of it melting on their faces and the stubble on their cheeks. They were two very familiar, youthful dwarves with an eye for mischief.

 

“STATE YOUR BUSINESS OR I’LL STRIKE YOU DOWN!” Algar cried, unsheathing his sword.

 

Realising that their unexpected visitor’s lives were likely going to be cut short by Algar’s blade, Myriene quickly jumped in front of him and put her hands on his chest.

 

“Nay! Do not hurt them Algar, I know them! They are two dwarves from the Blue Mountains!” Myriene said.  “Their names are Fíli and Kíli, nephews of Thorin Oakenshield!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fili and Kili come to the rescue?? I think not! Interrupting buggers! 
> 
> Surprise another chapter! Longer than the two before!
> 
> Myriene has just started to come out of her shell a little :) 
> 
> All a mention to Daenerys... and what's this? Two more Targaryens? If you've read the books you might understand who I might be referring too! One is canon (although not confirmed in canon but I'm 80% it will be confirmed in the next two books!) and one is a very popular theory that I back personally. 
> 
> (my title-making skills are lacking, forgive me!)
> 
> Also! I've made a Tumblr tag for this fic! It's #with-a-lions-heart !


	10. Chapter 10

The tension in the air raised the hairs on Myriene’s arm as she defused the situation, and Algar lowered his sword but did not sheathe it. Fíli and Kíli stood still, dressed in rich fur coats and dark leather, gloved hands resting on the hilts of their strange dwarven swords. Their ears and the tips of their noses were a frostbitten pink, eyes pink and water from being stung by cold winds.

 

“What are you doing ou’ here?” Kíli asked hesitantly as Myriene turned around to face him.

 

Over the past months, the sons of Durin had come to the Guard Keep with much regularity to the point Myriene could almost call them friends.

 

Almost.

 

Their constant japes at her being female had always stopped her getting too comfortable with them. But now wasn’t the time for Myriene to get irked by their behaviour, for she knew that if Fíli and Kíli were around then there would be dwarrow caravan near.

 

“We’re looking for my mother.” She said seriously. “It is a very important that I found her. You wouldn’t, by chance, know where she is?”

 

Fíli turned to Kíli, sharing a look, before Fíli turned back to her again, looking both puzzled and concerned.

 

“Nay, we haven’t. What’s wrong? Has someone died?” He asked tentatively.

 

“No… but this is a matter of life and death.” She answered gravely, and heard Algar huff behind her.

 

“Do you really think this wise telling these two kids?” He sneered.  

 

“Do you know where she is?” Myriene insisted, ignoring her companion as he stood beside her hands folded in front of him holding his sword in view.  

 

“Can’t say we do…” Kíli said, and at her distressed face added, “But Dwalin is at our camp just a stone’s throw from here!”

 

“Kíli—“ Fíli started but stopped when Kíli whacked his arm.

 

“It’s just a lass and a town guard, Fíli.” He hissed at his brother. Myriene had been around them enough to now when Kíli was manipulating his brother with his large brown eyes.

 

Kíli had Fíli wrapped around his little finger, and they both knew it.

 

“Come with us to our caravan, Dwalin might be able to help you…” Fíli said and after deliberating added, “But you can’t be armed. You understand.”

 

 _Bloody paranoid dwarves_ , Myriene thought bitterly as she nodded and tried to ignore Algar’s noise of disapproval behind her. The prospect of getting information on her mother, and the thought of a warmer place to sleep, lifted Myriene’s spirits up as she strapped herself into her armour again.

 

The raw spots burned and complained when she tightened the straps, and the sheer weight of chainmail made her legs feel weak so much so she thought they would buckle. Algar growled under his breath as he packed up camp and stamped out the fire, all the while he threw dirty looks at the two dwarves standing near the trees.

 

Vhagar didn’t seem happy at having her saddlebags being put on her again, but with much chiding (and the last of their apples) she consented to being led out of the clearing.

 

Fíli and Kíli said nothing as they lead them out of the thicket of trees, their big boots crunching in the snow and shoulders squared confidently. They looked like little, eager-to-please squires. Although princely, and Myriene couldn’t help but admire their neatly braided hair and their pretty silver beads.

 

It wasn’t necessary to ask where the brothers were leading them for Myriene and Algar hadn’t made camp that far from the dwarf caravan. It was nestled just outside another thicket of trees, a large hot firepit shining almost like beacon even from afar. The wagons and caravans were in a circle around the firepit, and several had strung lines to hang their washing between them. As they walked closer, kicking and fighting their way through a foot of snow, the large black shadows grew larger. And much more intimidating.

 

Within a stone’s throw away from them, a sudden anxiety seized Myriene as she handed Fíli her sword. Dwarves were fierce and deadly warriors, known for their strength and dislike of outsiders.

 

 _If they slit my throat, at least it will be for something_.

 

When the large fire’s warmth was starting to touch the very skin of her cheeks, Fíli and Kíli made their presence known and several small shadows poked curiously out of the windows of the caravans.

 

“We have quests!” Fíli called jovially, drawing the attention of a figure on the furthest end of camp.

 

It strode down from the steps of the grander caravans, short and muscular and with powerful legs. Myriene thought it to be a man at first, but when she saw it in full light of the fire, the eyes were too pretty and the face ever so slightly too fine to belong to one. 

 

She had fiercely dark hair that tumbled just past her shoulders in great silky tresses, and the beard upon her face was the same shade and consistency. Not wiry or curly like a man’s beard; but fine and she had braided it into her locks with fine little braids. Her nose was strong and hawk-like, her eyebrows high and fine and her lips were quite dainty.

 

She was an incredibly handsome woman, and her body was curvy, sturdy and muscled. It wasn’t hard to see why; a worn battle-axe hung from the belt around her hips. Like the other dwarves in the camp, she wore thick fabrics and a dark cloak lined with brown bear fur.

 

Many women Myriene had encountered over the years, but none could emanate dignity, grace and nobility that the woman in front of her had.

 

“My lady.” Myriene said courteously, bowing her head.

 

The lady let out a deep, rumbly chuckle with a small smile and said, “You know your manners.”

 

Algar snorted behind her, and she wished dearly that she could reach behind and punch him.

 

“Dís, daughter of Thráin son of Thrór, at your service.” The lady said and bowed elegantly. Once upright, she observed Myriene with a keen eye that raised the hairs on the back of her neck. “You must be from the East, I can tell by your armour.”

 

“Aye, Lady Dís. My name is Myriene Storm—“

 

“Storm? You’re a bastard then?” Simple were her words and although they meant no disrespect they pierced deeply at Myriene’s heart. She hated introductions like these. There was nothing honourable about having no true name, no title and no solid lineage to claim.

 

“Aye.” Myriene swallowed hard.  “But I am not baseborn.” 

 

“No… you would not be wearing plate-armour if you were.” Dís said, and it gave Myriene the feeling she was being scrutinized. “Made of steel. Not bad quality although nor is it any good and the craftsmanship is a little questionable. It would have shined bright when you first wore it.”

 

 _Where is she going with this?_ Myriene thought, shifting uncomfortable to her left foot. The anxiety in her stomach bubbled and the more Lady Dis talked, the heavier it made her armour feel. The dead weight and straps were starting to irritate the sores they had caused beneath her mail and gambeson.

 

Lady Dis smiled at her, “Why are you here?”

 

“I am looking for my mother. It is very important that I find her and find her quickly.” She replied.

 

“Is that so… and your companion?” Lady Dís asked, looking past Myriene to where Algar stood.

  
Algar didn’t get uncomfortable beneath the lady’s gaze and stood tall with his shoulders squared. Despite the lack of danger, his hand rested on the pommel of his sword.

 

Upon the question he replied, “She tricked me.”

 

“Tricked you? How could she trick you?” Lady Dis asked curiously; eyebrow raised and a smirk played on her lips.

 

“All you women are all the same, make your eyes big and cry a little and you’ve got yourself a slave.” He groused which just caused Lady Dís to laugh. There was a tentative chuckle from Fíli and Kíli as well, but they stifled them behind their winter gloves.

 

“Wouldn’t that be an amusing tale?” Fíli said to his brother in a stage whisper and only grinned when Myriene glared at him.

 

Her look of contempt was not missed. Lady Dís stared at them all equally in turn before asking, “I trust you know my sons?”

 

“Enough.”

 

“Enough she says...” began Fíli.

 

“She put coal in our boots on our first night in the barracks…” Kíli continued.

 

“All because we laughed at her.” Finished Fíli with a simpering smile of a court jester.

 

 “And I’ll do it again if you do not watch your tongue!” She hissed, hands curling into fists at her sides.

 

“Hoo-hoo-hoo.” Algar laughed behind her, his grin so big it seemed to take over half his face. It made Myriene’s cheeks burn with another blush, her concern coming back in full force.

 

_Picking fights would not be wise, especially with Stannis…_

 

“ _Peace_. Come, Myriene, I’m sure it will be easier to talk over some stew and brown bread _without_ my sons.” Lady Dís said with a smile, hands in front of her encouragingly.

 

“Nay, my lady, this isn’t the time for pleasantries!” She suddenly cried, voice anxious and stomach somersaulting. “I have to find her!”

 

 _If you do not get a lead soon you will never find Mother, ever._ A cruel voice said inside her head.

_That’s not true!_ Myriene snapped back, fingers curling into fists and making the nails cut groves in her palms.

 

The camp went silent and the usually rambunctious brothers went solemn. Lady Dís swallowed in front of her, the smile on her lips wavered but her grey eyes were concerned.

 

“She’s taller than a man, with blonde hair and blue eyes! She has a scar on her cheek and one on her lip. She favours a Valyrian steel sword by the name of _Oathkeeper_ and she is probably wearing her steel-plate armour the colour of copper!” Myriene continued, throwing her arms up in the air to indicate her mother’s height. A part of her wanted to break and scream when they didn’t seem t have an answer.

 

But then a voice called out behind her just as she felt her anxiety bubble t her tongue; “Yeh wouldn’ mean that ugly beast of a woman Brienne would yer?”

 

“Dwalin!” Lady Dís began to chastise, but stopped when Myriene raised a hand to quiet her.

  
Dwalin was quite tall for a dwarf, with a baldhead and a scraggly brunette beard. His arms were thick and corded with muscle, covered in tattoos and looked like they could snap Myriene in two. If it wasn’t for the smile on his face and twinkling eyes, she might have been intimidated.

 

“Yes! I need to know where she is!” She said eagerly. Her voice had taken on a hint of hysteria, and Algar looked ready to slap her out of it.

 

“She’s ou’ near the Mountains, abou’ a week’s travel from here. Yeh won’t find ‘er for a while yet.”

 

About a weeks travel _._

 

 _About a weeks travel_.

 

How long did it take for a ship or two to cross the sea? A month, a fortnight… a week? Seven hells, she was never going to find her. Stannis’s men would port, ride to Belegorn and burn the town to the ground. Butcher the women and children like Boltons, possibly raping them before putting them out of their misery. No doubt they would torture the head of the Guard until he told them where her mother was... they would find her before she would.

 

Myriene could not bear to think about how they would kill her. It would not be merciful... it would not be slow. 

 

And then what? They would come after Myriene with swords still bloody from her mother's murder. Swords raised and screaming they charge into the camp and slit Algar's throat, probably in front of her close enough that it the blood would spray on her face. After his death, they'd taught her and beat her, perform the usual battle tactics of rape and only then would they kill her...

 

Her eyes watered and tears start to trickle down her cheek when Lady Dís's hand clamped down on her shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Urgh sorry this took so long guys, i just wasn't happy with this chapter and I'm still not! It feels like I'm missing sentences and words. I've noticed how much the quality of my writing has dropped.
> 
> Thanks so much for your kind comments and 1,000+ views! It means alot thank you!
> 
> Poor Myriene, all anxious and scared and trying to act like she's not :(


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDITS: there has been edits made to Chapter 6 (rewrote Tyrion's letter, grammar and continuity errors) and Chapter 10 (continuity errors and general I-fucked-up-because-I-didn't-think-and-it-had-a-shitty-ending errors). 
> 
> It might be best you reread those chapters!

“Hush, hush, hush now…” Lady Dís’s chest was warm and soft, her heart thumping beneath Myriene’s ear in a soothing rhythm. Beneath the rich cloth she could feel leather chest plates, and above her ear was the cold of a buckle beneath.

 

It felt good to have her swollen eyes against the fabric; it brought back faint memories of childhood that neither made her Myriene feel better or worse.

 

Beyond the open door of the caravan, she could see Algar sitting at the fire pit with Fíli and Kíli. They seemed to be in a deep conversation, a map in front of them and bowls of salty meat stew in their laps.

 

Dís had tried to feed her some moments before, but it tasted rotten in her mouth and she had spat it back in her bowl. Myriene had immediately regretted it afterwards, but Dís hadn’t taken it as an insult.

 

“Now Myriene,” Lady Dís’s deep voice rumbled and Myriene looked up to her face. “I’m going to ask you some things and you have to promise to answer them truthfully.”

 

Myriene nodded, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her gambeson, “Aye.”

 

“How many winters have you seen?”

 

 _There’s no point lying now, you made a fool of yourself in front of everyone like a child anyway._ “14.”

 

Lady Dís let out a heavy sigh, “What is so important that you had to trick a town guard into stealing you a horse to find your mother?”

 

The question felt like she had dropped a stone in Myriene’s stomach. Making enemies was something that both her parents had been very good at when they were younger; it was inevitable that Myriene would do the same. It was unlikely that Stannis would target Lady Dís or her sons specifically, but his men had killed old Lord Brandon Norrey after he had let them stay in his clan for a week. They had been at their poorest during that time, Myriene being a scrawny thing of six and Brienne entering her thirtieth name days with less grace than a three-legged horse.

 

After that they had never requested sanctuary in any Lord’s keep or castle, not that they had been offered any since the butchery. Several times they had gotten so malnourished their gums had bled and skin turned yellow. Her mother had told her that it was honourable, for starvation was better than mindless bloodshed.

 

“Are you sure, my lady?” Myriene asked cautiously.

 

Lady Dís nodded, “I’m sure.”

 

Her fingers shook as she reached into the inner pocket of her cloak that she was still wrapped in and found the letter Lord Tyrion had sent her. It looked smaller than she remembered.

 

The dwarf took the letter when Myriene offered it to her, her gaze examining the broken wax seal that had once closed it. Whether or not Lady Dís had been schooled in the noble houses of Westeros, Myriene hoped desperately she hadn’t. Tyrion always used the least grand of Lannister wax seals, plain red wax that he embedded with a simple roaring lion.

 

When Lady Dís unrolled the tightly furled scroll and read, the comforting expression she wore to calm Myriene slipping the further she got down. She closed her eyes when she finished, sighed deeply and then looked at Myriene with a piercing gaze.

 

“I have heard tell of the war in Westeros,” She answered rather simply despite her now grave tone. “I did not know they are determined to kill children.”

 

Myriene thought before she spoke, “Baratheons have killed children before. The Usurper King Robert ordered the deaths of the Targaryen children.”

 

“But why kill a bastard?”

 

“My father is a Lannister.” Myriene remarked. “My mother said that Stannis started killing Lannisters after the Boy King’s murder… he had a young knight… Lancel I think, drawn and quartered. His men also raped and killed the Queen Regent, Cersei Lannister.”

 

“What about your father?” Lady Dís inquired softly, handing back the letter.

 

Myriene rolled it up again, crushing the little coil so it the expensive parchment creased. It gave her a sick sense of satisfaction as she put it back in her cloak pocket and said, “My father… is a white cloak but he hasn’t been in King’s Landing since before I was born. I… I don’t know a lot about it him… it made my mother sad to talk of him.”

 

“But he’s a Lannister?”

 

“He’s a Lannister.”

 

“And your lady mother?” Lady Dís prodded, her eyes kindly.

 

“A Tarth from the Sapphire Isle.” She answered and shifted uncomfortably. “Stannis killed her father with an axe to the head. She’s the heir… but she never married so… I do not know who is in Evenfall Hall now.”

 

With a lick of her lips, Dís looked out toward the fire where her sons (and Algar) sat. Her keen grey eyes observed them quietly, the fire catching the shine and making them sparkle. It reminded Myriene of her mother’s blue eyes, the very ones she herself had inherited.

 

They did not speak for a while, but it was not an uncomfortable silence. The caravan that belonged to Dís was quite cosy inside, and had a little bed piled with furs that sat next to an iron stove that burned bright with round coals that looked like glowing red pebbles. Although the roof was domed, it was painted with long, angular patterns that the dwarves seemed to love and the struts that held it up were harsh and straight. It gave it a cave-like feel despite the light colour of the oak wood and it made Myriene wish that she and her mother had had one all those years ago.

 

Lady Dís made a sound beside her, a deep grumble that brought Myriene out of her thoughts and said, “I’m going to help you.”

 

“Pardon, my lady?”

 

“Dwalin says that your mother with a scouting group near the base of Mimîn. It is not a safe route to travel and your town guard doesn’t look very enthusiastic.” Lady Dís said, her jaw set with a fierce determination that she had only seen on someone else’s face. A woman’s courage, her mother called it. “There is one condition that you must follow if I give you aid.”

 

“What would that be, my lady?” Myriene asked.

 

“Go home: back to the East. Find your mother and your father if necessary but go home.” She said earnestly, taking Myriene’s small hands into her large calloused pair. “You need to be among your people as I do mine.”

 

“My lady—“

 

“No. There are many people here who would kill you. Arda is growing darker everyday. Orcs are springing out of the earth like winter flowers, and I have half a mind to not let you leave my camp at all.”

 

Myriene’s shoulders slumped, but she nodded glumly. Westeros never had really been her home. Most of her early memories were of walking, hiding and crying against the rising cold winter, against the starvation, against the soreness of her feet as they pounded the earth. Many times they had been almost been killed, by other men or themselves. What kind of home had that been?

 

 _Not a very good one,_ Myriene thought darkly.

 

“What do you say, Myriene Storm?” Lady Dís inquired, her long black hair framing her handsome face in the dim light of the distant fire. When Myriene looked at her once again it gave her a faint longing to one day be have as regal an appearance as the woman before her.

 

“I, Myriene Storm, born a bastard without baseborn blood, promise to find my mother and return home to the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros.” Myriene vowed slowly, her words vaguely stumbling but not stuttering.

 

It was not her first vow and Myriene doubted it would be her last but the firelight that bathed Lady Dís, daughter of Thráin son of Thrór would be forever etched into her mind.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about last chapter's ending it sucked and I now realise how terrible it was. I was just lazy and wanted to end it shortly without having explanations for Myriene's actions. I'm such an idiot sometimes!
> 
> I have a feeling there's something missing in this chapter but I don't know.
> 
> Yes, Myriene is wrong about Robert ordering the deaths of Aegon and Rhaenys (Tywin Lannister is actually somewhat responsible) but I don't think Brienne bothered to teach her like a Maester on the histories of Westeros too much.

**Author's Note:**

> Please point out any mistakes you see, as well as inaccuracies for I'm sure there are many!  
> Kudos and comments would be very nice as well c:  
> Criticism is much needed!


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